A Taste of Lime
by SuperKateB
Summary: Charlie Brown once said, "Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love," and Nigel Townsend is about to find out that requited love tastes a whole lot like Seagram's gin and lime. (BugNigel MM slash.)


One time, on a rare day in which no one had presented him with DNA to test, trace evidence to analyze through the spectrometer, or a case-related Boolean search to run through his computer, he'd swallowed his pride and flipped to the comics page of the Boston Globe, contenting himself with reading through the funny strips there. 

He sighed as he studied the crudely drawn pictures and often uninteresting punch lines, the familiar hustle and bustle of the morgue a macabre backdrop to the innocence and lightheartedness of such comedic drawings.

_For Better or For Worse_, sycophantic and overly moralistic, refused to hold his interest. _Baby Blues_, written for thirty-something housewives, struck no chord with an equally thirty-something single ME. _Dilbert_ warranted a slight smile - the pointy-haired boss reminded him of his own boss in a strange, off-kilter way - and _Foxtrot_ actually inspired a full-out chuckle before _Cathy_, the declared favorite of one of his coworkers, quashed all attempts towards amusement.

But then his eyes were drawn, perhaps ironically, to the last comic on the page. In the panels, a bald-headed elementary school boy - did it even make sense to draw a school-aged child bald? - was sitting on what looked like a park bench, eating his lunch and rambling on about some red-haired girl off-panel. He shrugged, ready to dismiss the whole strip as a pointless exercise, when the last panel suddenly caught his eye.

The boy was sighing, and a bubble baring the words "Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love" floated in a disembodied oval over his head.

His attention to everything else - the din around him, the flickering of his computer screensaver, the faint scent of a woman's perfume wafting beneath his nostrils - faded away as he stared down at the pathetic-looking bald boy in the zigzag shirt, staring at his sandwich (presumably peanut butter, yes?) and ruminating on the nature of love.

"Nige? Nige. NIGEL!"

He teetered on his seat, hopping to his feet as his own name boomed in his ear. The newspaper crumpled in his hands as he came face-to-face with a pair of intense brown eyes. Jordan snapped backwards, surprised by his sudden movement, and furrowed her brow. "Geez, Nige, you'd think you just saw a ghost," she teased, her confusion replaced with her familiar smirk as she thrust a file folder towards him. Nigel excepted it graciously, his mind still muddled. "I need you to run some of these photos through the computer and see if you can clean them up. They're really grainy."

A brief glance at the top-most photo revealed the familiar black-and-white proofs of low-quality security photos from what appeared to be a convenience store. "I'll get right on it, love," he replied, flashing her a charming smile. "They'll be on your desk before evening."

"That's what I like to hear," she responded, patting him on the arm. "Thanks, Nige." She paused for a moment, pursing her lips. "And Nige?"

He barely heard her, his attention drawn by the corner of the newspaper comic he could still just barely see. "Hmm?"

"Maybe cut down on the caffeine a little, 'kay?"

He made a face at her back as she flounced away, hailing Lily for some task or another, and then sighed as he collapsed back into his desk chair. He pushed the file folder away and smoothed out his newspaper, carefully studying the comic that had so drawn his attention.

"Nothing indeed, little guy," he informed the gray character as he reached for his scissors. "Though I would also note that unrequited love spoils the taste of fine, vintage scotch as well."

Five minutes later, when Nigel left to work on the job assigned to him by Jordan, the last panel of the "Peanuts" strip was taped to top right corner of his monitor.

**"A Taste of Lime"  
A Crossing Jordan Fanfiction  
In the "Strange Bedfellows" Continuity  
Wrriten by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

Days, weeks, and full months later, newspaper strip almost completely forgotten, Nigel Townsend leaned far back in his desk chair, computer humming quietly as his dark eyes studied the every motion of Boston's most beautiful creature from the safety of his desk area. The windows to the autopsy room barred his subject from noticing his intense interest, leaving him only with sighs and the sweet intoxication of that particular scrub-clad human statuary.

There was a subtlety in each of the observed one's movements: the waves of the hands as an explanation, undoubtedly wordy and complex, was provided to Dr. Macy; the darkness of eyebrows pulled so closely together in concentration that it appeared they would merge into one; the pursing of dark, subtle lips as the boss occasionally asked a question or murmured a comment. The familiar, morgue-issue blue scrubs were, for the most part, clean and pressed, appropriate for a creature of such high dignity.

Macy, of course, was enchanted in an entirely different way, his head bobbing as he listened attentively, adding in a comment or three whenever there was an appropriate opportunity. Occasionally, something - presumably a question - would roll off the chief medical examiner's tongue and cause the picture of perfection to pause, frown, and then respond, lips turned downward at the corners until their boss replied. It was charming, really, the lengths some went to please the balding, middle-aged bachelor who had taken to putting the personal possessive in front of the word "morgue."

He cupped his chin in a hand and watched idly until, after what felt like mere seconds, the conversation ended abruptly and the duo was on the move, heading towards the doorway. Nigel jumped, straightening his desk quickly and attempting to act as busy as any human being could be on a slow day with few deaths. The farce was passable, and he kept his head low as the doors to the crypt swung open.

Macy was speaking, a clipboard in his arms. "I'll have Jordan run over the body with a fine-toothed comb," he commented as they reached the empty desk to Nigel's left, "but I think you caught everything there is to catch, Bug. Good work." He clapped the younger man on the shoulder before turning to the presumably hard-at-work Nigel. "Do you have those DNA tests from the Murphy case finished yet?"

Feigning acute interruption, the dark-haired Brit tossed aside the unimportant folder on some long-dead case and reached for the familiar stack of computer files that usually were piled on the corner of his desk...only to come up short. He frowned, turning to glance accusingly at the significantly shorter-than-expected pile. "I thought it was here," he explained, watching as Dr. Macy's expression soured. "Let me sift through my things and get back to you, chief."

"Good idea," groused the older man, his frown deepening, "considering the fact that I'm supposed to sit down with a detective from homicide and talk about those very tests in an hour." He glanced quickly at his watch. "Make that forty-five minutes."

Nigel glowered at his back as he strode away, hailing Sydney for some pointless exercise, and immediately slouched back in his seat, sorting through the familiar pile of paperwork. Nothing. "Oh, bloody Hell," he growled, tossing the files onto the floor and reaching for another offending, disorganized mass of paperwork. "I know they're here somewhere..."

"Maybe if you were a bit more organized, it wouldn't be such a problem," put in a familiar voice, and he tossed a glance over his coworker. Bug, still dressed in the pristine scrubs, gestured to his own disgustingly organized desk, complete with its familiar insect display cases. "You're so disorganized all the time. If you would just be a bit - "

"Bugger, Bug, not now," Nigel sighed, unaware of his own horrific pun as he turned away from the other man. He realized only too late that his tone was rough and unpleasant and flinched at his own reaction, pausing in his frantic search. It was a file.  
What was a file, when compared to -

"Geez, sorry," Bug apologized, and suddenly he darkened the left side of the desk, his hands reaching for the maelstrom of papers, folders, newspaper clippings, and other relatively useless paraphernalia. "Feeling a bit touchy today, are we?"

His pale-faced companion said nothing, flipping idly through another pile of folders. The familiar scent of woodsy, slightly bitter aftershave played through the air, a devious, distracting aroma that, for a moment, made him forget entirely the task at hand. Then, with a shake of his head, he cleared the cobwebs and reached for the nearest files. No time to think about that, time to think about -

Their hands brushed, and Nigel pulled back instinctively. "I already checked that pile," Bug offered, picking up the stack and placing it on his nearby desk. "Have you checked the drawers?"

"Mate, why would I put a current case in the drawers I don't use?" He opened the nearest drawer and pointed at its contents - a dirty coffee mug, a half-empty pack of Doublemint, and some masking tape. "If I was worried about using the drawers, my filing system would be ruined."

Snorting, the other ME just rolled his eyes, moving towards the series of files resting against the computer monitor. "If you call this a system, then I..." He trailed off, his eyes gravitating from the manila folders, caught on something out-of-the-ordinary...

Nigel blanched, nearly dropping the stack that was balanced precariously on his bony knees. The bloody comic strip.

Smiling, Bug glanced away from the monitor and grasped the stack of files. "Cute," he commented, his tone almost patronizing. Nigel wrinkled his nose and returned to work, though his eyes did dart up from the file names to study Bug's face a few times too often for his own comfort. The Indian man showed no emotion as he flipped through the series of files, though his compatriot did sense the slight curve of a smile touching just the very corners of his lips. "Though I must say, I did figure you for a _Dilbert_ fan, myself."

"Yes, well, even I can harbor my fair share of secrets." The retort sounded covertly flippant to his own ears as he set the remnants of another fruitless search on the tile floor and lunged for another pile.

Bug nodded, and for a moment, said nothing. But then, as he set down the pile on his desk, his face turned away, the question left his lips quietly and floated into the space not unlike a sly ghost. "So... Who's the girl?"

The second set of files sitting on Nigel's knees, unlike the first, slid onto the floor, and papers ballooned into the air as two pairs of brown eyes, both very different in their subtleties, met for an unduly brief moment. But then, reality - as it was apt to do - crashed back down around the two desks.

"Oh, fuck me!" announced Nigel loudly, sliding out of his seat to pick up the mess of papers and now-empty folders that encircled his feet. "My system is bloody ruined!"

Despite his inability to see Bug's face, he could instinctively hear the sly half-smile affecting his vocal tone. "Yes, well, perhaps if you had a system at all, it wouldn't be so much a - "

"Hey, Bug, Nige!" The only hint of Jordan's appearance other than her voice were, from Nigel's under-the-desk perspective, her stylish brown leather shoes. He tried to follow the shoes and ankles past her supple form and towards their natural apex (namely, her face), and the back of his skull made a lovely, hollow percussive sound as it contacted metal and inspired him to swear again. He rubbed the tender spot as he emerged from the floor, watching as both of his co-workers and fellow medical examiners smirked smartly at him. "Stand much?" quipped Jordan smartly.

He said nothing, but did shoot her what he felt to be an appropriately dirty look.

"Anyway, guys, sorry to interrupt...whatever you're doing," she apologized, pausing between words as she got what appeared to be the first full-on glimpse at the melee surrounding Nigel's desk, "but I just wanted to say that I snagged the Murphy files to run a last-minute trace test on something." She held out a thick manila folder towards the duo with both hands, as though it was some sort of sacrificial peace offering to the Gods of the Boston Morgue. "I thought you might want them back."

Nigel snatched the file away possessively. "No one snatches one of Nigel'ses precioussssses and lives to tell the tale," he hissed, glancing from side to side widely. Bug rolled his eyes and began to stack up the massive number of file folders that were now spread around on the floor, chairs, and his own desk. Jordan, true to her form, just shook her head before wandering off for some other grand adventure.

The lanky man glanced fleetingly at Bug - now absorbed fully in cleaning up the mess they'd caused - and then at the familiar comic strip on his computer monitor, complete with curled edges and tiny, tape-mended tear. How many weeks and months had that strip been pasted there, unnoticed by anyone else on staff? And how fortuitous - or ironic, he noted with an inward smirk - was it that the first person who did was -

"Nigel, are you going to take that file to Dr. Macy, or not?" Bug's familiar voice was pressing and insistent, and dark eyes blinked as Boston's only other body-studying Brit focused back in on the very present and very real existence of his rather tasty-smelling co-worker, who was still standing a mere foot away, bogged down with files and watching him expectantly. He tapped his foot. "Well?"

"Right, yes, of course," smiled Nigel, nudging Bug on the arm. His normal reaction would have been something more playfully intimate - a partial hug, a ruffle of the hair, a friendly pat - but for some reason, at this moment, it seemed oddly inappropriate.  
"Be back in a flash, no worries!"

"Right." Bug's voice sounded confused, and his facial expression may have matched. Nigel would not have known, for, before his friend even managed to get the first iota of a vocalized response to leave his lips, he'd turned his back and taken off down the corridor, file folder in hand, with full intention to deliver the test results to Dr. Macy...and then stop at the bathroom, perhaps grab a soda or some crisps from the nearest vending machine, and enjoy said soda and (or) crisps while taking a long, leisurely walk around the block.

His plan, however avoidant, seemed to work wonders, because when he returned - half-eaten bag of Doritos in hand - his desk was neatly organized and Bug, now focused on labeling some new creepy-crawly for his collection - had completely forgotten about the comic strip.

* * *

At least, that's what Nigel had assumed, which seemed appropriate given that the incident was not mentioned again for several weeks. Life and work, two lovers so entangled that not even great minds such as Plato, Socrates, or Neil Gaiman would ever, truly, be able to separate them, trudged slowly on in the direction that they tended to favor: complete insanity. As it normally was around the Boston Morgue, a slow week was promptly followed by a hectic one, wading up to his waist in tests to run, videos to defragment, research to cover, and bodies to slice apart. And then, an unfortunate side effect that a grumbling, actually-annoyed Lily had fleetingly blamed on the full moon, the hectic week ran into a second, equally busy one, leaving Nigel buried up to his elbows in either entrails or paperwork (depending on the day), and forcing him to work no less than two double shifts just to keep his head above water.

The second of the two double-shift days found him bent over his computer, running photo sharpening dialog boxes and trying to inspire a particularly stubborn set of fragmented photos, deleted from a computer, to become crisp, clean original copies. The morgue bustled with activity and productive noise, not the least of which being the subtle humming of an unfamiliar song from the desk behind him. Bug had been filling out and signing off on cause of death forms all morning thanks to a particularly nasty six-car pileup on the freeway and had taken to humming while he worked. It was an amusing enough ditty that it kept Nigel distracted from his own frustration, both at being overtired, overworked, and overly malcontent with even the simplest parts of life. Busy weeks, after all, meant lots of MEs flying solo on cases. Lots of MEs flying solo meant only minimal quality time with his coworkers. Or, rather, one particular, humming -

"I really need you to be working on one of the new cases!" His thought process was interrupted as both Jordan and Garret careened around the corner, the former looking wholly nonplussed while the later was in his morgue-renowned "guns-blazing" mode. Nigel was thoroughly convinced that it was one of the world's seven natural wonders that the two didn't collide and, much in the way of matter and antimatter, cancel out one another's terrestrial existence completely.

Whatever the case, the duo came to stop just beyond the pair of desks reserved for the morgue's two expert criminologists, and all defragmentation dialogs were forgotten as Nigel listened to the bickering at hand. "What's so important, Jordan, that you can't possibly take on another case?"

She flicked her dark curls over a shoulder. "I'm working on Andrea Bryer," she explained, receiving a blank look in reply. She sighed. "You know, the supposed suicide at - "

"Wait, wait, wait." A hand flew up, and Macy, who had been simply annoyed before, took a headlong leap into the realm of "incensed." "SUPPOSED suicide? I thought we signed the CoD on that case hours ago. The woman threw herself in a lake."

For the briefest of split-seconds, the dark-haired vixen's expression was soft, almost apologetic. "I know you thought that," she said, her jaw setting slowly as her determination won over the flicker of guilt, "but Woody's not so sure. Cops double-checking the area saw that the shore was all torn up, and there were a man's footprints in the mud there. He snagged Sydney, and they're making plaster casts of the prints even as we speak."

Dr. Macy just stared at her for a short moment, blank-faced, before sighing and raising a hand to the bridge of his nose. Evidently, Lily hadn't been lying that morning at the senior staff meeting when she'd told everyone that she was wholly out of aspirin. "Jordan, while I appreciate your concern over the destruction of a park's scenic lakefront," he growled, "there is NO EVIDENCE to support today's flight-of-fancy. There was no struggle aside from this 'ripped up' bank I haven't even seen, no signs of physical injury, and - to top it all off - she left a suicide note. The case is closed."

Nigel leaned back in his seat, watching the free entertainment, and - out of the corner of his eye - noticed Bug glancing at the goings on, feigning disinterest as best he could. Nothing, after all, made up for a stressful week better than a full-fledged clash of the titans.

"Not quite." Jordan sighed and shook her head. "Garret, the script on the note was sloppy and erratic - "

"Maybe because she was nervous about killing herself?"

" - and I would really like to run a handwriting analysis on it." She shook the packet of evidence and forms she'd been holding at the older man's face. "The reports say that Bryer was left-handed. If the note was written by a right-handed person, we know it couldn't be her!"

Macy's disdain for the continuation of this fiasco was apparent, but unfortunately, his resolve was fading noticeably. "Jordan, listen, I - "

"Perhaps I can be of service, my dears!" Not entirely sure what compelled him to do so in the first place, Nigel hopped to his feet and delicately removed the packet from Jordan's hand before she could shake it any harder - or use it as a weapon. "A handwriting analysis - under my tender, loving care, of course - is a half-hour procedure. I'm waiting for files to defragment, as it is, and could easily take on this rudimentary task." He flashed his best charming grin at the ever-darkening Macy. "If you would like, Dr. Townsend will be on the case!"

Jordan smiled widely and patted him on the back. "Thanks, Nige! You're the greatest!" she praised before flouncing off.

"Oh, I know," he smirked after her. His boss glanced at him and then just sighed before storming away in the opposite direction, muttering something that sounded distinctly like "I don't even know why I bother, anymore."

Sinking into his desk chair, the lanky Brit had just barely begun to open up the packet when an exasperated sigh sounded behind him. "You do realize," Bug pointed out in his familiar, helpful-while-still-critical tone of voice, "that a handwriting analysis is going to take two or three hours. And that's if the equipment isn't being used by someone else in the first place."

"Yes, I'm fully aware of those important factoids, Buggles," he smirked, swiveling around in his chair. The Indian man was still bent over a stack of forms, but the stack had slimmed considerably since he'd last paused to study the effort. Dark lips pursed as Bug set the pen down on the paper to write his last name, and Nigel forced himself not to chuckle; with a last name like that, he'd purse his lips, too.

Brown eyes glanced up at him through heavy lashes. "If you knew that, why'd you even tell Macy you'd do it?"

"Because," he pointed out with a wag of his finger, "I also am fully aware that Jordan's however-far-fetched theories have this undeniable habit of being wholly based in reality." He paused, considering his co-worker and the ever-lessening pile of paperwork taking over his otherwise pristinely organized desktop. "You know," he added languidly, "handwriting analyses do tend to go much faster when there're two sets of hands working on the project."

Bug eyed the remaining CoD forms curiously, pursing his dark lips. "I do need to finish these," he admitted, scratching his chin, "but maybe a break would be good."

"Considering the number of forms you've been signing with that bloody long John Hancock of yours," Nigel pointed out as they rose from their seats and started to meander down the labyrinthine halls of the Boston Morgue, "I'm surprised your hand isn't wholly cramped up yet."

The shorter man made a face at him and he smiled, slinging an arm around his shoulders. The tactile comfort of such a contact, especially after such a long week, was reassuring, but he forced himself to release his friend entirely too soon, using his arm to, instead, force open the doors to the trace evidence room. Too much familiarity, he reminded himself as the haunting scent of piney aftershave briefly touched his nostrils, was dangerous.

"So, what exactly is the point of all this?" Bug asked suddenly, pulling Nigel from his distraction. Machines and monitors buzzed to life at the push of a few buttons, the shaggy-haired technology expert checking calibrations and settings with a keen eye. "The girl drowned in a suicide, and Jordan even admitted there was little-to-no foul play."

"Perhaps no foul play, mate," pointed out the lanky man with a wag of his finger, "but it's still suspicious. Pretty blonde twenty-something found face-down in the middle of a private park, dead, with a suicide note in her pocket? Sounds rather like an Agatha Christie novel."

Bug snorted as the contents of the packet - forms, a handful of personal effects, and the water-stained suicide note - tumbled out onto the examination table. "Sounds rather like a suicide to me." Nigel rewarded his cynicism with a well-placed eye roll as he unwrapped the note - mentally, he refused to call it a suicide note until all hints of foul-play had been completely disproved - and glanced over it. His mirth and playfulness faded, however, when the words transferred themselves from squiggles on the page and into meaning, and he could feel his cheeks grow cold as he set the note down on the scanner bed. His coworker peered curiously at him. "Is something wrong?"

Mouth dry, Nigel quickly shook his head and forced a toothy smile, dismissing the brief concern with a brief wave of his hand. "Oh, nothing," he replied casually, firing up the scanner. It glowed with a soft, warm white light, blinding enough that he had to look away...and thusly, avoid further scrutiny from Bug. "Just a flash of deja vu, that's all."

The note slowly began to appear on the monitor, the scanner completing its task with lightning-fast accuracy and the kind of efficiency to be expected from expensive, state-of-the-art electronics. The scrawling red script looped its way across the projection screen until all five sloppy lines were displayed proudly for everyone to see, complete with blots and smears provided so lovingly by the lake. The two men stepped back from the equipment, watching as the words sharpened from blurriness to crisp, tight letters, unmarred by the aftereffects of submersion into water.

"'He'll never love me the way I do him,'" Bug read aloud as the words firmed and the scanner beeped to indicate the end of the process. "'No matter how long I follow him, he'll never know the devotion I have for him. It's just better this way.'" He paused slightly, frowning as he moved to fiddle with one of the nearby machines, his dark eyes focused away from the screen. "Wow."

His coworker nodded dully, studying the idiosyncrasies of the slanting loops and hastily-slashed dots, listening only half-heartedly to the familiar voice; it provided a soothing background to his concentration and study. "Indeed," he replied, clicking the mouse button to re-center the note. "It's sad, isn't it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought for the briefest moment that Bug nodded, but then the smaller man's jaw evened and he reached for the forms and paperwork that had been discarded on the nearby table. "I mean, pathetic, right?" he clarified, and suddenly Nigel's attention was on everything except the task at hand. Bug kept his head bowed over the forms as he spoke, his facial expression hidden in the shadows cast by the projectors. "Like you said: pretty, twenty-something just throws her life away just because some nameless guy doesn't love her." He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.  
"Why wouldn't she just move on and find someone better?"

The small tinge of pain that had sparked in his chest doubled and tripled as Nigel looked fully away from the note and, forgetting its significance, studied the shadow of his companion's face for any sign of emotion. The familiar curve of his jaw, set squarely, and his motionless eyes were illuminated gently by the glow of the screen, flicks of natural auburn highlights shining in his hair thanks to the unusual lighting effects. After a moment, his familiar brown eyes rose from their study of the forms and Nigel, feeling somewhat trapped despite the size of the trace evidence room, turned back to the projector screen.

For a moment, silence overtook the space between them, sans the humming of the equipment and the subtle shuffle as Bug turned the autopsy report over, reading the back.

"You know, it can be painful, and hard to accept." The words tumbled awkwardly from his lips as he re-centered the note a second time, his hand clammy on the mouse.

"What can?" There was disinterest in the other man's voice, but out of the corner of his eye, Nigel could see the unmistakable motion of the paperwork being placed gingerly back on the table.

He swallowed, focusing on the screen. "Unrequited love." The answer remained short, simple, aloof, a combatant to the rising tension blanketing the evidence room. He could feel the gooseflesh rising on his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and the heaviness of the silence as it settled down around his shoulders caused him to shiver suddenly. Never before had he understood why so many fiction authors enjoyed modifying fictitious instances of awkwardness with the word "palpable."

But now, trapped alone with Bug in the heavily-silent, oppressive evidence room with only a suicide note and some lab equipment to save him, he comprehended the concept of "palpable tension" perfectly.

"Ah, yes," nodded the Indian man, his voice completely unreadable. Nigel dared not turn to focus on his face, frightened not of the emotion that awaited there but rather the expression touching his own visage. "Reminds me a bit of your Charlie Brown strip. Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter quite like it,right?"

Nigel's mouth moved to respond but before he could answer with something either appropriately venomous - "And you would know, Mr. Idealist-Who-Can't-Land-A-Girl?" - or playful - "It spoils the taste of scotch as well, I'll have you know" - Jordan rushed in, a flurry of footfalls and long hair that could only have been duplicated were the furies of Hell on her tail. "Guys, Garret's about ready to have my head on this case, thanks to Sydney coming back with the plaster casts and abandoning all interest in, well, anything else thrown his way." Her big brown eyes glanced up pleadingly, begging nonverbally for information in a way that she'd never allow herself to beg with actual words. "Please tell me you have something - ANYTHING - for me."

"I don't know, Jordan," Bug began helpfully, gesturing towards the screen as though he'd actually showed any sort of mild interest in the task at hand. "It can often take hours to run a good handwriting analysis, and - "

Holding up a hand, the lanky Brit promptly cut his coworker off, shaking his head. "That might not be a necessary disclaimer, my dear Buggles," he informed them both, glad that the lighthearted pet name didn't catch in his throat the way he'd expected it to. A few keystrokes clattered on the nearest keyboard, and the note zoomed out until the entire text was readable. "Tell me, Jordan, what do you notice about the slant of this note?"

She frowned, her plump lips pursing. "It slants right," she stated, gesturing to the obvious bend of the letters. "So?"

"So, it is a well-known fact that right-handed writers often slant their script a good deal to the right, while left-handed writers tend to slant less and slightly favor the left." He pulled his trusty laser pointer - beloved of some, loathed by many - from his back pocket and swirled the familiar spot of red light around the word "devotion." "Now, this is just my initial analysis and nothing concrete or tested," he continued, "but no word that slants so far right says 'lefty' to me."

Bug rolled his eyes. "And if you're wrong, Doctor Macy will have our respective hides..."

"Thank you, Nige!" The edge faded from Jordan's tone as she patted the tall man on the back. "Let me know what else you find; I've got to go scrub up. "

"And undoubtedly rub Dr. Macy's nose in this development as only the irrepressible Jordan Cavanaugh can." She laughed and shared a knowing wink with Nigel before disappearing through the double doors and towards her office.

Sighing, Bug brushed off his khakis and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I should go finish signing off on those cases," he decided, thrusting his hands into his pockets. The lanky man feigned interest in the projected message, hiding his inward discomfort as he casually read over the letters again and again. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Right." He nodded his farewells and listened as the soft footfalls faded through the doorway and down the hall, disappearing in the hub of other noises carrying across the morgue.

The prophetic words of the note - forged or not - burned in the back of his mind as he watched the swinging doors glide shut behind his coworker. "'He'll never know the devotion I have for him,'" he repeated quietly, the suspicious slant of the word "devotion" suddenly paltry compared to the churning in his stomach.

Then, shaking his head to clear the muddling cobwebs, he allowed himself a single, muttered "No bloody kidding" before sitting down at the nearest computer keyboard and beginning the lengthy process of running a full-fledged handwriting analysis, alone.

* * *

Four hours later, his joints popping as he shrugged on his familiar leather coat and matching gloves, Nigel was grateful the day of the double-shift had ended.

Had his life been a dime-store novel, he'd realized about half an hour before his work day was finally over, then the incident with one Dr. Mahesh "Bug" Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy would certainly have been declared by all high school English teachers in the universe as an excellent example of foreshadowing. Macy, with all the elegance of a nerdy teen catching his girlfriend in bed with the quarterback on prom night, had nearly blown a gasket upon hearing the news of Andrea Bryer's non-suicide, his temper flaring in such a way that Lily - the Queen of Good Work Ethic, of all people - had opted to take an extra-long lunch break and return two hours later with both the last morsels of a large ice-cream treat for herself and an extra-large bottle of generic aspirin for everyone else. And, to make unpleasant matters dire, Detective Hoyt - second only to Jordan in virtues such as patience and tolerance - had arrived at the morgue shortly after his plaster footprint casts, demanding answers and evidence that simply did not exist. Nigel's previous project of clarifying graphics once deleted from an unfamiliar hard drive became "unimportant" as he and Sydney - who now bore the label of "obnoxious little git" - were forced by the powers that be to go over the pristine (if drowned) body of Andrea Bryer with a fine-toothed comb. And, when, as expected, nothing was found, Macy's wrath doubled over, coupling with Woody's general frustration to leave everyone on edge.

And, just to make dire matters worthy of the fire-and-brimstone of relatively malcontent, dark-haired Brits with an interest in criminology, Bug had disappeared on some errand for Dr. Macy hours earlier and not revisited his desk since then.

A quick glance at the clock and ever-present weather indicator on his computer taskbar revealed that it was just past nine p.m., and a charming twenty-six degrees out. He scowled and flicked off the monitor, zipping up his coat hastily. Well-worn jeans and the t-shirt under his jacket would not even begin to keep him warm on the long walk back to his flat, not that it mattered; after the altercation with Bug, he'd made an executive decision that getting pissed off his arse would be the best way to end his day, and, lucky him, the rest of that shift's events had only encouraged his pre-planned deviant behavior.

He tossed his pack - loaded mostly with the remnants of paperwork that would be filled out sometime in the morning, whilst he sobered up and tried to force himself back into the office - over his shoulder and meandered towards the elevator bay. Macy's light, unsurprisingly, shone through the windows to his office, and a handful of other lights remained on. The graveyard shift would have their hands full tonight, thanks to the day's relative insanity.

"So, we're sharing an elevator as much as we share a cubicle. Appropriate."

The deadpan commentary was a shock to ears that had long become comfortable with silence, and Nigel whirled on his heel to see Bug standing behind him, cozily encumbered by a rather ridiculous wool coat. Sometimes, he had to wonder where on earth his high-bred friend shopped. "I was wondering where you wandered off to," he declared, certainly not lying. The elevator arrived and they settled into it, both reaching for the button at the same time. Their arms bumped and, by habit, Nigel retracted. Bug didn't seem to notice, either way. "Did Macy corral you into working on the cases no one else would touch since Jordan's riveting discovery?"

"In case you've forgotten, it was your riveting discovery," offered Bug in his most helpful tone, a snarky smile touching his lips. Somehow, Nigel was relieved by the small gesture; it served as a reminder - or perhaps, more accurately, as a reassurance -  
that the heightened tension in the evidence room had been, at least for the most part, disregarded and unimportant. "But yes, Dr. Macy did have me working on other cases, since the rest of our medical examination staff had, as he told me in a fit of rage, 'successfully produced the first forensic setting of _Mutiny on the Bounty_.'" Despite the obvious seriousness and exasperation in his voice, Nigel could not withhold a chuckle. "So instead of working, as was originally planned, with Wonder Boy - " He scowled at his own unfortunate mention of the newest ME. " - I had the dubious task of autopsying two elderly car crash victims, a middle-aged man who fell off his roof, and a seventeen-year-old leukemia victim."

"Sounds riveting." The lobby stood empty sans for two gruff, disinterested security guards who Nigel was fairly certain would not have noticed if he'd exited the elevators piggy-backing a pair of corpses. The brisk outside air, sharp and cold as February Boston tended to be, prickled his skin, and he shivered. Bug burrowed further in his frumpy brown coat. "Well, the day is officially over," he announced with a smile, his hands buried in his pockets. "I now have until noon tomorrow to regain my sanity and sense of self."

"As do I." Bug paused briefly, watching as his much-taller coworker hopped down the first few steps, evening their gazes. "Where are you headed to?"

A sadistic, seductive smile crossed the lanky one's face. "I, my dearest Buggles," he replied, "am headed off to get ridiculously pissed and forget about the worries of my long, arduous work day." A strange expression, heavy with what he was fairly certain qualified of disappointment, crossed his companion's face. "And you? What wonders await you in your fifteen hours of blissful freedom?"

Bug shrugged, a noncommittal motion. "I'll probably go curl up on my couch with a book and some quiet music," he admitted quietly, focusing on the ruddy glow of a distant traffic light. "Though I admit, after a day like today, your fate sounds tempting."

Brown eyes widened as Nigel stumbled back a few steps under the pretense of extreme shock, his hand clasped to his chest. "Why, Mahesh," he announced loudly, his voice echoing off the brick facade of the building, "I had never taken you to be the drinking-to-relieve-acute-stress kind!" He raised his chin skyward, gazing at the smoggy, cloudy sky. "Oh, Buggles, we never knew you!"

His companion rolled his eyes and followed him down the steps. "Oh, please," he sighed, tone treading dangerously somewhere on the line between amusement and exasperation.

"Ack, mate, I was only razzing you!" he laughed, ruffling his hair slightly. His fingers danced in the dark hair and, as the touch ended and his fingers grew cold in the winter air, he realized that Bug's self-invitation was both a rare and impressive opportunity. Together, they could share a fine pale ale and talk casually about issues outside of the office. Literature, independent film, jazz music, the nature of certain _Peanuts_ comic strips hanging on particular computer monitors...

Well, perhaps not that last topic. Ever.

The buzzing of a comfort much more vivid than anything provided by scotch or bourbon stirred in his chest as he imagined himself seated at a small table in the back of his favorite pub, Bug across from him and leaning on his elbows, exchanging lively thoughts in a debate on post-modern poetry. What more could a frustrated medical examiner ask for after a long, stressful day than quality time with the only other medical examiner who ever held his attention for more than a few short hours?

Despite all his excitement, however, a tiny portion of Nigel's mind did pause briefly, calculating the mental magnitude of the situation at hand. Even if all went according to his mental plan - and why shouldn't it? - the equation of Bug plus himself plus alcohol plus intimacy would still lead, ultimately, to one sum: unmitigated disaster. And yet, as their breathing crystallized on air while they hovered just outside the dimly lit entrance to the morgue, warily glancing at everything but one another in the awkward silence, Nigel also realized that his current state of loneliness (represented best by himself minus Bug), with alcohol factored in, would eventually be far more disastrous to the health of his liver than the initial addition problem would be to his personal life.

And his coworkers claimed he was far too left-brained to be a scientist! Ha!

Grinning manically as Jordan once said only he could do, he clapped Bug pleasantly on the nearest shoulder and earned his attention, waggling his eyebrows lecherously. "C'mon, mate," he encouraged, looping a long, loose arm around his friend's shoulders. "Misery, after all, loves company, and I know a great little pub near here where everyone is always at least moderately miserable."

* * *

After about two hours, two scotches (on the rocks) for himself and Seagram's and 7-Up with a twist of lime (and the obligatory, badly-timed "limey" puns) for Bug, Nigel had completely revised his previous equation to read:

Bug + himself + alcohol + intimacy a damned good time to be had by all.

The pub, as he'd promised, was a small hole-in-the-wall, inhabited only by a handful of regulars and the necessary barely-legal strumpet, seated at an out-of-tune piano and picking out some smooth pop songs. Bug's eyes had widened when Nigel's arrival had inspired a smattering of cheers and, "Hey, it's Nige!" from the regulars, and he'd verbalized his surprise when the bartender trotted over to their table with a complementary plate of salsa-covered nachos and several warm words of welcome to the newcomer.

"I would have never guessed you to be so popular," he'd stated as his friend dove into the nachos with reckless abandon.

He'd been rewarded with a leering grin. "You learn new things every day, now don't you?"

The conversation was as warm and casual as Nigel had imagined it being, the mental exchanges segueing into reality as they pleasantly discussed the latest movies ("I must say, 'Phantom of the Opera' was much better when I saw it live in Liverpool."), reflected on popular new books ("Dan Brown is a hack; I'd much rather leave the symbology nonsense out and read a good Agatha Christie."), and even flitted over the topic of politics without becoming too incensed at one another ("...though I never will understand why so many people have become so intent on hating President Bush."). At some unidentified point that Nigel later forgotten the exact time of - surprising, given that he'd checked his watch when it first occurred - their knees brushed underneath the small table and then rested up against one another, a small, constant touch that sent a shiver up the tall man's spine. Occasionally, one would shift positions and their legs would separate before making contact a second time, inspiring shock after shock of warmth. Nigel's mind buzzed with excitement, his senses blurring slightly, and he knew that it wasn't simply because of the alcohol.

Bug's presence, after all, was far more intoxicating than any scotch on the rocks.

The piano player's song ended and transformed into a languid, chord-heavy piece that Nigel could remember hearing on the radio years earlier, and he listened to it half-heartedly as he watched his coworker finish the last of the nachos. "So, I must know," he finally implored, leaning heavily on his elbows. "Why do you drink your alcohol with lime? Seems a bit...highfalutin."

"For someone who enjoys pointing out my high breeding, I'm surprised you care," the other responded teasingly, sipping his drink. His pinky elevated unconsciously, bringing Nigel to smile further; Bug's little idiosyncrasies, it seemed, all worked in a delicate balance to create one beautiful, vest-wearing, stuffy, wonderful little man. "But if you must know, my friends at the university used it as a way to encourage me to drink along with them. I didn't particularly care for drinking, but I'm rather fond of lime." He took another sip, the bubbles in his glass swirling as he set it down. "Now, can I ask you a question?"

The straightforward inquiry surprised Nigel momentarily, but warranted a smirk nonetheless. "You just did," he pointed out.

"Oh, you know what I mean." His friend laughed and Bug frowned slightly, but it refused to linger. Then, suddenly, the mirth in his eyes was gone and he glanced down at the glass in his hands, shoulders slumping slightly. "Anyway, I was just curious... Who's the girl?"

With his glass halfway to his own lips, the lanky Brit had to keep himself from spilling his beverage down his silk t-shirt, opting wisely instead to place it back on the tabletop. The candle on the table, provided to combat the bar's already dingy lighting, flickered. "What girl?" he questioned, swallowing the lump that was slowly overtaking his throat. Certainly, it would prove easier to feign innocence than to admit guilt.

"The Charlie Brown girl." Bug's tone was fairly insistent, and his dark eyes stared directly at his coworker. For once, Nigel found himself grateful for the poor lighting; the lack of light did wonders for hiding his slowly-reddening complexion. "First the comic strip, and then the letter. It made me wonder." His knee pressed against the other beneath the table as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We're as much friends as any two people in the medical examiner's office, and I just thought, if you happened to have something you wanted to share, then - "

"Bug, worry you not - there is no girl darkening the doorway of this man's delicate heart." He forced a smile, the backmost corners of his ever-devious mind realizing without guilt that, technically, no lie was involved. "That charming foray into the inner workings of one Mister Charles Brown simply reminded me of a situation I once knew, that's all. I saved it for, shall we say, reminiscence's sake."

He'd expected the story, however fictitious, to sate his companion's curiosity just enough for the subject to change. This companion, however, was no mortal man; he was a information-seeking, knowledge-absorbing, direly-lonesome scientist. His eyebrows perked up as he reached for his beverage.

"Really? What situation is that?"

Foiled, Nigel winced, and then leaned back in his seat. The piano droned on, the tune switching to something low, bluesy, and sweet. "One of my best mates back in London," he explained with a half-shrug, "was ridiculously in love with one of his friends. He couldn't go a day without thinking about how it would be if they, one day, found themselves shagging like animals, or curling in bed together, or simply exchanging meaningful glances across the office."

He frowned slightly. There was more truth in the fabrication that he'd intended to include.

"But he knew, deep down, that the relationship was no less star-crossed than that of Juliet and her Romeo. He buried his private yearnings, and simply watched his beloved continue to go on with life, never any the wiser." He sipped his scotch gingerly, the all-too-recent memory of watching failed flirtations between Lily and Bug play out when they'd thought no one would notice.

The pressure against his knee softened as Bug leaned forward, intent on the remainder of the story. Some of the threads in his lavender dress shirt glimmered slightly in the candlelight, a myriad of new color to contrast with his favorite tweed-textured vest. "And?" he prompted.

"And... Nothing ever happened." Suddenly, the scotch glass was suspiciously empty, the ice cubes clattering together as Nigel replaced it on the napkin. "He allowed his life to go on, and contented himself in knowing that his love would be happier without him." He shrugged slightly. "Not all romances end perfectly, Buggles. Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices to make sure the people you care about are happy."

Bug eyed his drink, large lips pursing slightly. "I suppose that's true," he agreed, downing the remainder of his beverage in a surprisingly large gulp. "But how could he ever be certain that the person he was so smitten with would really never love him back?"

The taller man shrugged slightly. "Call it a hunch, I suppose," he replied casually. Then, stretching, he rose from his seat. "We should probably call it a night," he decided, loathe to admit that the story - however inventive it had been - still struck a few too many dissonant chords upon his heartstrings. "After a day like today, I know that I could use a well-placed dream about scantily clad vixens feeding me grapes on the beach."

His lecherous grin was well-retorted by another of Bug's eye rolls. "You are incorrigible," he muttered.

They paid the bill and exited the pub awkwardly, Nigel's footing a bit less certain that he would have expected it to be after a mere two scotches tempered by nachos. The air outside of the bar was remarkably colder than either man had expected and stank suspiciously of exhaust and the heavy dirtiness of air that'd been stagnant in a city for far too long. Hands thrust each in their own pockets, the two medical examiners took up residency on the sidewalk. Nigel convinced himself it was simply because he wanted to see Bug safely into a cab for the night, but at the same time, it felt as though there was something else, something hovering just beyond his reach.

And that was without minding the whisper in the back of his mind, the one that reminded him coyly that his flat was only across the street, and Bug had never paid him a visit there.

"I hope I wasn't too unpleasant company," the smaller man offered suddenly, pulling Nigel from his own, slightly foggy thoughts of spreading his coworker across the flannel sheets. "I usually don't go out much, you know."

Chuckling, he shrugged off his friend's self-depreciation, a relatively stupid smile plastering itself across his face. "I always find you to be at least relatively decent company," he reminded him gleefully, "though you can sometimes be a slightly stubborn bugger." The pun on his nickname forced Bug to smile as he shook his head.

A taxi rolled down the street and past them, ignored by both, though Nigel was certain he'd seen that familiar pair of dark eyes follow its path out of sight.

"Besides, blokes like us should stick together," he continued, his mouth running on despite his better intentions to stop it. Alcohol usually failed to have such an effect on him in such small doses. Or perhaps the alcohol should remain blameless in such acts, and instead, the woodsy scent of his companion's aftershave be brought to trial by jury. "Two Englishmen trapped in bloody Boston, Massachusetts, with little more than the stamp on our citizenship papers and our accents to guide us." Another chuckle emerged from the smaller man's lips. "By all accounts, we - token oddballs of the medical examiner's office - should spend more time together. Strange bedfellows, and all that."

He winced at his last word choice - strange bedfellows? What had been in that scotch? - but Bug seemed not to notice. Instead, he smiled sheepishly and glanced away, at the steam rolling out of the vents in the sidewalk. "Sounds good to me"  
he admitted. A coy glance reached Nigel, and their eyes met meaningfully.

Nigel's already cold hands grew clammy, and his pulse quickened suddenly, his entire self caught in the steady gaze of his long-time coworker and friend. As it often tended to do, the familiar ridiculous scenarios pushed their way through all his logic, begging him to submit to half a decade of attraction and desire. Bug was his friend. Bug was his coworker. Bug was his mate. Bug was his strange bedfellow.

No, not in that way. They were closer than he'd initially realized, their torsos nearly touching, their gazes transfixed, their breath mingling on the air before it floated off into the heavens. So little space. Nigel's brain, muddled by alcohol and the all-too-familiar scent, reeled. Reality danced, turned, and twisted. Another vehicle rolled by. A taxi? A car? His own sanity, escaping for the final time?

And then, suddenly, they were kissing.

No, not kissing. They were merging, bonding, making use of some other gerund that described the intimacy of the action so much more adequately than "kissing." Kissing sounded not unlike what eighth-grade students engaged in at co-ed slumber parties, Nigel realized as his arms wrapped instinctively around Bug's waist, pulling their bodies close. The warmth of another body - no, BUG'S body, he reminded himself firmly - intoxicated his senses. His nostrils filled with Bug's scent and his fingers roamed across Bug's back. His tongue played through a mouth that tasted distinctively of gin and lime, a pleasant tang against his taste buds. The tiniest of moans tantalized his ears and he wrapped his arms tighter, eliminating any remaining space between their bodies, his mind only vaguely aware of the feel of hands splayed against his chest, curling against his jacket.

If this passion could simply be labeled as kissing, then the entire lexicon of the English language was doomed for the rest of eternity.

Time confused itself, and suddenly, they were stumbling across the street and then up the stairs to his third-floor apartment, exchanging soft kisses and unexpected caresses in locations that made Nigel's heart rate quadruple. The feel of Bug's hands against his own body was so maddening that he jabbed the doorjamb with his key three times before managing to find the lock. The door slammed behind them, lights forgotten and shoes hastily kicked off, and within mere seconds their coats were bunched on the floor, abandoned and forgotten. Teeth nibbled his neck as Nigel dared to glance around the familiar setting and observe a handful of unimportant details - the answering machine was blinking, he'd left the bloody kitchen sink dripping before he'd gone to work, his underwear were drying on a hanger suspended from the living room ceiling fan - and then they were suddenly tumbling across the bed, fingers opening buttons and pushing away tan vests, lips once again pushing and pulling, tongues dueling for supremacy, hips pressing together and creating a wonderful, groan-inducing friction that Nigel swore would land him in one of the crypt's cold-storage drawers soon enough.

It was not until Bug's shirt was open, revealing deep brown skin with a spattering of dark, thick hair that reality caught up to Nigel, and when it did, it ran over him like a forty-car freight train. "Wait, wait," he groaned, the lips flitting across his clavicle warm and wonderful despite his protests. "Bug, please, wait."

The pressure let up as his lover - no, coworker, he reminded himself with a frown - clambered off his body, allowing him access to rake two trembling hands through his long hair and, briefly, reevaluate the situation. Even the relative darkness of a room without lighting, he could clearly make out the details of Bug's rumpled hair, wrinkled, open shirt, and the tell-tale tent in the front of his khakis. His eyes lingered most on the last detail and then flitted away, and he forced himself to sit up.

"Mate... You do realize what this means, yes?"

Despite being a whisper, the question broke the awkward silence fairly effectively. A hand groped around in the sheets and, eventually, found his own, squeezing it gently. Without the lamps on, there was no reading whatever expression played across the Indian man's face, and no reading the emotion in his dark eyes.

"Nigel..." The response sounded as a sigh in the darkness, and their fingers interlaced, the smaller palm of the smaller man warm against the back of his own hand, and the shorter, chubbier fingers a comfortable pressure in the webbing between his fingers. "Do you think I would be here if I didn't?"

He suddenly felt ridiculous for ever asking such a stupid question in the first place. "And... You still want to?" Evidently, no matter how well he meant, one foolish question tended to beget another.

"Yes."

Silence washed over the room briefly, and the shadowed silhouette that was Bug remained motionless, sitting on his knees in the middle of the unkempt bed, his hand atop Nigel's, his appearance tussled and rumpled and wonderful.

"Good to know."

And then, with a well-placed kiss upon plump, dark lips, and the roaming of hands across bared skin, words became utterly superfluous.

* * *

Morning dawned slowly over the city of Boston, as most mornings tended to do, a languid changing of the sky from a deep, indigo hue until the ruddy pinks, delicate golds, and bold crimsons dissipated into a pleasant, soft tones of crystalline blue, the color refreshing as the sun flitted in through ratty draperies and illuminated the bed.

Nigel yawned, stretching out until his toes poked out from under the end of the comforter, wriggling closer to the dark-haired man at his side. A pair of arms clutched around his waist protectively, and the cadence of breath against his lower chest tickled in a comforting, delightful way. His fingers wandered down the line of the familiar jaw and ran through soft hair, and the man curled around him groaned slightly. "What time is it?" he mumbled dully, his death-grip tightening.

"Seven-thirty, love. Time for all good little medical examiners to rise and shine."

Bug groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, his mouth stretching out in an immense yawn of his own. "If I were more awake, I would have to argue your placement in the demographic of 'good' medical examiners."

"And I would argue your placement in the 'little' portion of the group, so we're even." He worked his hardest at creating a lecherous, teasing grin, but his heart seemed more intent on being warm and nurturing than it did being playful. He ran his fingers slowly up and down the brown arm that stretched across his stomach, a strange contrast to his ridiculous pale skin. Perhaps he could start tanning, now.

Words passed in and out of his mind, but for the life of him, all his talents with the English language as a whole faded away, verbosity and games alike, until the silence enveloped him warmly and he abandoned himself to the post-sleep haze.

Bug's voice felt distance, though he could feel the motions of his jaw - stubbly in the mornings - against his bared skin. "Nigel?"

"Hmm?"

"When did you... When did you realize how you felt about me?"

The question was quiet, touched with uncertainty and, in many ways, innocence, and the thin man chuckled audibly at the somewhat unfamiliar timidness. "Can you guess?"

"If I could guess, do you think I would have asked?"

Snorting, Nigel ruffled his already mussed hair and shook his head. "The day when you were playing with tarantulas and chopsticks," he admitted after a short pause, twirling a few strands of Bug's soft, dark hair between his fingers. Despite their romp in the sheets the night before, the woody smell of his aftershave - or was it his shampoo, after all? - lingered in the air. "I thought to myself that, as deplorable as I personally found the hobby to be, it was endearing. And amusing. I mean, who else pokes spiders with sticks?"

Bug's chuckled against his chest and then fidgeted so he could look up at his bedfellow. Their gazes met and they shared a smile, their bodies entangled together, legs brushing and hands lingering on every last caress, as though the dream had the possibility of shattering any second.

Disengaging himself from his death-grip on Nigel's stomach, Bug scooted up in the bed and rested his head on the pillow, curling himself into the long, open arms of his comrade, coworker, and - as decided only a few hours earlier - lover. For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, but curiosity's habit of killing lanky Brits as easily and often as felines reared its ugly head, and the expected question rang through the quiet without too long a delay.

"And what about you, Buggles?"

Nuzzling his stubbled face in the crook of Nigel's neck, the dark-complexioned man sighed heavily. "Honestly?"

Fingers ran up the curve of his spine, a gentle gesture. "Honestly."

"Then, honestly - " Bug's voice was muffled as he snuggled closer, combating the cold and reveling in the closet contact. " - it was the night I that I could have - in your charming vernacular - 'shagged' our lovely morgue grief counselor and, instead, called you."

"Ah, I see," yawned Nigel languidly, tightening his grip on the man in his arms. "Makes sense, if you ask me."

Of course, as such things are loathe to do, the magnitude of the statement settled in a split second later, and the entire bed was jostled as Nigel sat straight up, sending pillows, blankets, and Bug sprawling in every direction. "The night you could have WHAT!" he roared, fully awake. Wide eyes blinked up at him in surprise. "When in the name of all things holy around here did LILY offer to shag YOU!" He paused, furrowing his brow. "And why, in the name of all things UNHOLY, did you turn her down?"

If the first two questions had surprised and confused Bug, the third amused him and he chuckled, albeit briefly. Then, shifting to prop himself up on an elbow, he shrugged slightly. "After the fiasco with my kidnapping in that John Doe case, however long ago," he explained with a heavy sigh, "Lily was at my flat, waiting for me to come home. She and Jordan, they..." He swallowed. "They'd stumbled upon my personal journal and found an entry I cannot say I'm entirely proud of. And, well, she wanted to see if I wanted to 'share.'"

"Very Lily," snorted Nigel, realizing only after the words escaped his lips that they smacked exceedingly of jealousy.

"And Lily... She confessed feelings for me, feelings that I certainly did not realize she had." He pursed his plump, tanned lips for a moment, his deep eyes meeting Nigel's and exchanging a silent assurance of some sort. "But I knew, instinctively, that it was wrong. And that, instinctively, the person I'd most wanted to see after being 'found' again...was you."

Beneath the sheets, their hands met, fingers tangling and caressing, playing against sharp fingernails and soft skin. For a moment, neither spoke; instead, they shared smiles, their gazes speaking volumes for their states of mind, and Nigel felt his mind entertaining a new flight of fancy:

The hope that they'd linger like this for a very long time.

"I'm going to take down the comic strip," he declared suddenly, a bold statement that surprised even himself. Thick eyebrows arched boldly, and he could feel the old, familiar leer crossing his lips as he released Bug's hand and collapsed back onto the mattress, gazing at him half upside down. "It seems somehow inappropriate to publicly display my loathing of unrequited love, given what occurred last night."

A small smile, hopeful and delicate, creased the very corners of Bug's mouth. "Isn't that a bold move?" he inquired, his fingers running through the shaggy, tangled mass that was Nigel's hair. "People may become suspicious of your sudden affinity for peanut butter."

"I vastly prefer the taste of lime, when lifted from the lips of certain stubborn Buggles," he teased in response, tracing the curve of Bug's collarbone with an idle finger. "Besides, I rather enjoy leaving the ME's office guessing. Life would be so boring, otherwise."

His companion chuckled and slid down into bed beside him, each laying on his side, noses nearly touching. His hand traced the gentle curve of a slight love handle - Nigel made a mental note to tease Bug about such things at a later date - and caressed a hip coyly. Bug murmured something incomprehensible and buried his face in his own arm. The sun flickered behind a cloud and once again reappeared through the window, casting long columns of yellow-while light across the sheets.

"Nigel?"

The question was a sleepy mutter, muffled by an arm, and a single brown eye peaked open from Bug's self-fashioned hiding place.

"Where do we go from here?"

Fingers walked slowly up from Bug's hip to his arm and from his arm to his face, caressing both the rough stubble and the soft skin that awaited him there. Briefly, he considered what he would look like with a beard. Briefly, he considered what he would look like if they woke up this way tomorrow.

Briefly, he considered what he would look like every morning.

"Anywhere you want, pet - sky's the limit." The answer formulated on his lips without any thought or planning, and a warm shiver that had become familiar in the last twelve hours ran up his spine as Bug reached for and clasped his hand in his own. He paused for a beat, briefly glancing at the clock to see it was already nearing nine a.m, and their time before reporting into another stressful day at the ME's office was growing short. "Though, if I may, I do have a suggestion."

"And what's that?" questioned Bug with the slightest arch of an eyebrow, his fingers playing across the back of the much larger hand in his.

Nigel winked playfully, his lips spreading to reveal white teeth in a devious, wolfish grin. "I think we should start, Buggles, by heading off to the showers."

A smile as bright as the sunlight through the windows answered him, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he swore he could once again taste the tang of lime playing across his tongue. "That," his lover responded, "I think I can live with."

**Fin**.

Standard Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan and all related characters belong to NBC and Tailwind Productions. I am simply borrowing them with no intent to, you know, make money. Friends, perhaps, but not money.

Author's Notes: This fic is inspired entirely by the innuendo and playfulness that goes on between Nigel and Bug throughout the Crossing Jordan series. I don't care what kind of purist you may be, you cannot deny that the two have a bond. Well, guess what. I just hooked them up, which means I now get to play with the coupling AS MUCH AS I WANT. That's right. Serial one-shots with Nigel and Bug. Expect more of me. Much, much more.

(As far as I'm concerned, the N/B fandom is far too tiny, anyway.)

Special thanks to my dearest Cassie, who got roped into this when I appeared in her room and declared, "I want to write a Nigel/Bug fic!" and she dared to encourage me. Now, she's stuck as my CJ beta reader FOREVER. Oh, the pain of being stuck with me...

"Strange Bedfellows" is a continuity of my own creation that, starting with this fic, focuses on what the Crossing Jordan canon would be like if Bug and Nigel were actually a full-blown couple. I suppose this makes it a bit of an AR continuity, but that's alright. Any other "Strange Bedfellows" fics build off one another, starting with this beautiful baby of mine.

(Also, if you're curious about the "tarantulas with chopsticks" and "could have shagged Lily" occurrences, read "Outside, Looking In" and "Possible Impossibilities." They set up those moments very nicely. )

Reviews are always welcome and encouraged. Thanks for reading!

2.17.05  
1:18 a.m.


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